


The First Stage of Loss

by HappyLeech



Series: The Killerverse [1]
Category: Silent Hill (Video Game Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Bad Ending, Butcher Ending, Gen, Killerverse, Serial Killer, Silent Hill: Origins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 14:11:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6910465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappyLeech/pseuds/HappyLeech
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The trucker is a Butcher, and he doesn't even know why</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Stage of Loss

The first man you kill has a mustache, glasses, and a suit. The hair is wrong though, and you destroy his head with your fists. The second man is mostly right, so you string him up to watch him choke. You hear a report on his apparent suicide as you roar off down the road a few days later, and smile. 

The first woman you kill is a hooker, lurking around the truck stop. You like her hair, so you invite her back to your cab and stab her to death. You hide her body in a nearby marsh, and the folks in the area assumed that she'd finally found someone to run off with. The second woman you kill is older, living alone. You follow her home and break in, gloves on you hands as you hold her down and stab and slice. You write something on the wall in her blood, but you can't remember what, before roaring off in your truck.

You don't know why you're compelled to kill these women, with soft light brown hair, with hints of perfume and who call you "honey".

You don't know why you're compelled to kill these men, with glasses and dark facial hair, with commanding voices and suits. 

 

But you do, and you can't seem to stop. 

 

You've reached 15 men and 23 women when it happens, when you take the shortcut through Silent Hill. 

"You need a girl, good buddy," is the advice your friend--coworker-- gives, and you chuckle to yourself as you drive into the fog. The last thing you need is another dead truck stop hooker on this drive. 

You've humming along to some song the last dead girl had been singing to her young son, when something, _'a girl?!'_ , runs out into the middle of the road and falls to her knees. You slam on the breaks to keep from hitting her, barely managing to stop, and you shut the rig off and scramble out to look for her.

The fog is thick, ashy, and you don’t quite understand until you find the burning house. Of course, the girl was running from that! Satisfied, you almost turn and return to your rig, when a scream pierces the sky. There’s someone else in the house, and while you’re a killer, you won’t stand and watch a house burn to ash with someone inside of it.

You take a deep breath, one of the few you’ll afford yourself in the coming hours, and dive into the smoke and flames and gaudy furniture. There is sobbing, and you stumble through a living room until you find the stairs.

Upstairs, you find a child, burnt beyond all recognition. And they’re still alive. You pull them from the floor, cradle their body in your arms, and when they tell you to let them die, you ignore them.

Men, women, yes. Children? No, you’d never do such a thing to a child.

 

When you wake, it takes you a moment to realize that you’ve even been asleep. It’s only the ash on your eyelids and the smoky cough that reminds you of the fire, and you sit up on your temporary bed. A bench doesn’t make a good napping place, but you’re more worried about how you got there than your sore neck. That, and the child if they were real and not a smoke induce vision.

You wander into the nearby hospital, and narrow your eyes when you spot the doctor. He doesn’t have facial hair, or glasses, but there’s something about him that makes your heckles rise, makes you want to tie him down and take a pen and shove it into his eyes until there’s ink or inky blood running from his mouth—

You shake yourself from the fantasy, and slam the call button for the elevator, feeling guilty for indulging in such a dream when there’s a child that you need to check on.

The next floor is a mess of construction equipment, blood, and viscera. You know this isn’t right, but when you approach the nurse ahead of you, you find yourself dodging an attack, horrified at her face. A hammer hits her hard and the mass of meat and bone that was her face hits the floor hard, and you throw open the nearest door.

By the time you see the girl again, you’re bored of it all. It was scary, the first two times. Exciting, once or twice. Now killing the nurses is just another chore, and you have to reign yourself in before you strike the girl.

The monster, because that’s all that the mass of meat and skin and bile could be, disintegrates, and you collapse to the floor, jeans soaking up the blood that remains as you remember the flowers you threw in, on the coffin. You take the triangular thing out of spite, and the pretty young nurse should count herself lucky that she has blonde hair instead of a light brown.

 

You storm your way through the town, leaving a dispassionate trail of bodies behind you. 

 

The thing in the mental hospital that was your mother, the bitch who’d tried to kill you when you were a kid, goes down like a sack of rocks, all bones and metal pieces jutting out as you slam your boots into it’s head. She should have tried harder to kill you, you think with a grim grin.

The theater is even less interesting than the hospitals, and you hit the large lumbering thing until it’s bones poke through the leather it had for skin, until you boots squish and squelch with the gore coating them as you storms up the theater aisles. The nurse was lucky to have made a hasty retreat, because you’re going to break her neck next time you see her.

By the time you get to the motel—you remember this motel—you have blood soaked into your jeans, your vest is ripped, and you don’t even bother with anything but your knife, your fists, and a handgun you stole from a corpse.

The nurse is there with the doctor, but before you get the chance to take your knife to his neck or your fists to her face, they’ve left you alone in that stinking cesspit of a room.

 

You carve the bed into ribbons instead, and feel a little bit better.

 

When you were young, your father hung himself. You stood there and watched as he twitched and writhed, and it wasn’t until hours later the owner of the motel found the body, found you playing games on the pinball machine in the rec room.

And as you swing your fists into the punching bag with his voice, you find yourself wondering if it even still works. It’s not until your fists hit dead air that you realize you’ve been fighting in a haze, thinking about that shitty game you were so enamoured with as a child.

The triangular objects makes a pyramid of sorts, and you watch the girl, the fucking invasive child, smile.

You’re not even sure if the demon was real, but the man in the robe that you held down and pummelled sure felt real. You’d know the feeling of a nose breaking under your hands in your sleep, and after your time in the town, you could probably kill in your sleep.

And you probably will. They have you strapped down, whoever they are, and you hear the echoes of the man and woman you murdered. You thought they were your parents…but they were. 

You knew that smile, knew that colour of hair and sickly sweet perfume. You killed her, like she should have killed you.

You knew that condescending look, the wire glasses and dark hair that marked him as your father. Stringing him up was never more satisfying.

And if it’s needles or knives that slide into your skin, you don’t even care. You know why you kill, and you want to kill again.

 

You will kill again.

**Author's Note:**

> It's almost 2 AM and I'm sure I'll look at this tomorrow and cringe but Oh Well it's posted now


End file.
